


Time for a Change

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Fluff, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, M/M, Rosenrot Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23905264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: Paul brushes and braids Flake's long hair—circa 2005.
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	Time for a Change

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just trying to get back into the flow of things. Writing this was like walking through mud.

He’s warm, behind him. A solid weight. An appreciated presence.

Something content and kind is swelling inside of him. Through both of them. Flake can feel it, but he won’t address it. Hands are in his hair. Sure fingers, raking repeatedly through his long locks.

“How do you fail so spectacularly at taking care of your hair?” Paul says, voice light with laughter. “Every time I see you, it’s a disaster.”

“It has a mind of its own, it’s not up to me,” Flake replies, scratching at an invisible itch on his arm through his thick sweater, currently unwashed and absolutely covered in his cat’s hair. Paul hums, voice wavering from amusement. Flake curls up his legs a little tighter, bringing his arms around them. They’re seated on the living room floor, upon a few blankets that Paul himself oh-so-thoughtfully laid out for this sole purpose.

“I’ve been contemplating cutting it,” Flake says, listening to Paul’s everything—his breathing, the shifting of his clothing as he moves, the quiet drift of his fingers through his hair, and then the auditory indication when he picks up the brush. The first kiss of the brush bristles against his scalp sends a zing down Flake’s spine. He continues.

“Too many times now I’ve been mistaken for a woman. A _woman,_ with a jawline and nose like mine.”

“You make a beautiful woman, Flake,” Paul says in such a serious manner, Flake would think he’s being genuine if he didn’t know him better. Flake scoffs. Paul continues brushing his hair; long, slow strokes of the brush from the crown of his head, all along the length of his hair to the center of his shoulder blades. It feels nice. Paul adjusts himself behind him, shifting. Flake is mildly surprised when he splays his legs out on either side of him, thighs pressed to his outer hips. Must’ve become uncomfortable, sitting with crossed legs. Paul speaks as he resumes brushing his hair.

“I think it suits you,” he says quietly, “Plus, it looks cool headbanging with hair like that.”

“When was the last time you saw me headbang?” Flake mutters. Paul snorts. He sets aside the brush and brings his hands up to begin gathering his locks. Flake pauses. He feels Paul begin to separate them into segments between his fingers, based on the gentle scraping of his fingernails along the nape of his neck, the way his knuckles are resting upon the center of his upper back.

“It’s time for a change,” Flake says with finality, picking at a couple cat hairs on his sleeve, eyes downcast and lips in a slight pout. “It’s a pain to deal with, anyways.”

“If that’s how you feel,” the other man replies as he begins to braid his hair together, swiftly, confidently. Flake pauses again, and then twists to look back at him with a frown and knit eyebrows. Paul leans over, hands outstretched to maintain the hold he has on those individual locks of hair, exclaiming with a hint of panic, “Hey! I’m trying to do something back here!”

“I can tell,” Flake huffs, peering at him with an accusatory eye, “Since when do you know how to braid?”

Paul grins a little and shrugs.

“Since I learned how to with Arielle’s hair.”

Flake arches a brow, saying flatly, “I assume the result was a disaster.”

With only a slight smile in reply, Paul shuffles over a bit to regain the optimal angle. He resumes braiding despite Flake’s initial protest. Silence reclaims the living room of Flake’s Berlin home. Jenny and his daughter are out right now, so it is just the two of them. Flake drifts away, feeling the slight pulls of Paul’s work, gentle and careful in their manner. He listens to the shift of his arms and fingers, the quiet pop of his wrist at one point, the harsh exhale of frustration that emerges occasionally. Soon enough, Paul is done, indicated by the way he lays Flake’s braided hair upon his upper back and strokes a hand across it. He claps Flake on the biceps, squeezes, and announces proudly, “Now you’re an even prettier woman, Flake! All thanks to me! You’re welcome.”

Flake scoffs, turning himself away from Paul in the entrapment of his outstretched legs. He looks at him, a disapproving scowl on his face. He violently unravels the braid with tugs of his fingers. Paul is grinning, looking rather pleased with himself.

“Idiot,” Flake grumbles, working at the mess of his violated hair, frustration simmering—well, he’s convinced now more than ever to chop it all off. It’s definitely time for a change.

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


End file.
